by Pat Cunnane
Obama’s OPC saw its fair share of lunacy, too. But we were the first modern White House, thanks largely to Howli and OPC Director Fiona Reeves, to lift up the oft-forgotten letter-writing tradition housed in the lonely fifth floor of the EEOB, as a cornerstone of our second-term messaging. A window onto the world, the letters were vehicles for empathy—a way to understand what mattered to folks across the country, to hear from the people who put the president in office (and many who didn’t). It would become our deepest well for finding real people to meet the president.
The gush of letters provided a conversation with the American people that led to a fascinating dialectic—unemployed; underemployed; thanks, Obama; screw you, Obama—about what was really going on in their country. Fiona’s team would send around a word cloud at the end of each day culling the most common words from the daily correspondence. Every time I clicked open those emails, America’s fragmented identity came into clearer focus.
One word was always largest—centered—surrounded by a rotating set of buzzwords signifying specific issues. Guns, police, abortion, for instance. But the recurring, centered word, every day, was Help.
It’s the same thing I called out to Velz almost daily: “Help, Peter, please.” I was terrible with technology. Peter was proficient. An Excel genius. I was attempting to copy and paste two photos and place them side by side for comparison. It wasn’t going well. It was SOTU season, and stress was high.
Every year, the three weeks leading up to the president’s State of the Union address were madness. The chief speechwriter was buried under stacks of research and policy papers, fending off edits from everybody with a pet project to push—from the State Department to the Environmental Protection Agency—while Communications was busy preparing a slew of policy rollouts, travel, and events. During those frenzied few weeks, I focused first with Howli and later Liz Allen on populating the First Lady’s State of the Union guest box, inviting folks from across the country to sit with Mrs. Obama.
President Reagan began the custom in 1982. He invited Lenny Skutnik, a previously unknown federal employee who had leapt into action a few months before when an Air Florida jet crashed into the 14th Street Bridge in Washington, DC, shortly after takeoff, saving a passenger from the icy Potomac River. Skutnik would serve as an example of American heroism—of everyday citizens displaying the spirit that makes America great.
Reagan called Skutnik out by name in his address, thus beginning a White House tradition that was expanded upon over the years: filling the House Gallery with folks the president could reference in his annual speech. Pulling heartstrings, pushing his message.
We took it very seriously. There were categories to lift up, from the original—“American hero”—to “small business owner,” to “cute kid,” and even “corporate titans.” We were careful to reflect America’s diversity. There were groups to hit, from Native American, Hispanic, and LGBTQ, to white, black, and Asian American, as well as members of the disabled community. It wasn’t to check boxes, though the process necessitated that; it was to appropriately represent the people who make up the United States of America, the people the president would address.
“Diversity doesn’t just happen,” Howli would say.
Some people hit multiple categories: small business owner from Alaska who is a veteran? Jackpot.
Sometimes my box suggestions strayed, like when I pushed for the Pope or Sinbad, or Larry David, whom I insisted would need to leave early for it to be funny. There’s a West Wing maxim, which I first heard from second-term communications director Jennifer Palmieri, that you wanted to hear when you threw out an off-the-wall pitch, four little words: “The idea has merit.” Of course, none of these ideas of mine garnered those golden words. But there was always plenty of merit for inviting buzzy guests to the box, and back when the reelection campaign was looming, Dan knew how to generate good buzz and push our messaging.
Debbie Bosanek: not exactly a household name. Fortunately, her boss is. For months, Obama had been pushing for a fairer tax code: “Warren Buffett’s secretary shouldn’t pay a higher tax rate than Warren Buffett,” he would say. We called it the “Buffett rule.” It was an appeal to common sense. So, ten months out from an election that would turn on the economy, Dan invited Buffett’s secretary to sit with the First Lady. Debbie’s presence made the point.
In subsequent State of the Union guest boxes—with the reelection campaign a worry of the past, and the confidence of a second term—we focused less on swing states and more on stories worth telling: Americans, known and unknown, in the tradition of Lenny Skutnik.
I was debating between two such candidates, both older white men, for the hero category, when I called out to Velz for tech help. Both men were approved by multiple policy counsels and our exacting research department. One a police chief and the other a fire chief; each an American hero in his own right! With a quick eye roll and some magician-like moves on my keyboard, Velz had them side by side. Once the photos were aligned, a crucial difference between them became clear. The police chief was clean-shaven, while the fire chief wore a bushy mustache. Straight out of central casting.
I picked the fireman with the hero ’stache.
Sometimes I didn’t want to choose. Sometimes choosing was impossible. Often, there was no mustache to make things clear. I came to another photo, this one of American heroism in action. It was of a man, Carlos Arredondo, wearing a cowboy hat and rushing a bleeding, badly injured man to safety in the wake of the 2015 Boston Marathon terrorist bombing. Jeff Bauman, the man being rushed to safety, would go on to lose both of his legs and play a crucial role in identifying the bombers. He and Carlos became friends. I hemmed and hawed. So I suggested, let’s bring them both. Howli thought a minute before saying: “The idea has merit.”
“Didn’t even need your help this time,” I told Velz as Ned walked in. Ned was tall, thin, and quite smart—and, like everybody else, a bit quirky. He was a detailee from the Central Intelligence Agency (meaning he was technically an employee of the CIA, though he was working at the White House) who served as the National Security Council’s spokesman and a top deputy to National Security Advisor Susan Rice. I liked giving him a hard time when I could. So I tried to bring up a recent fact I had learned about him, but my punch line was punctured by fits of early laughter about something else.
“Giddy-up!” I heard Josh yell out of our sight line from his office. I knew what it was about instantly. My heart sank, and I checked my email to find a familiar photo. It was me, shirtless, riding on a horse in the ocean. An absurd shot pilfered from my unprotected Facebook page that Velz or Desiree or Antoinette would send around to loosen up the office or cut the tension. Or just to put me in my place.
“Guys, guys.” I tried to regain the room. “You know Ned showers with his dog?”
No reaction. They focused on the photo, and Ned filled me in on how widely the horse picture got around: “You know Susan’s on this email chain, right?”
I was felled again. And then it got worse.
Two agents approached my desk. One looked vaguely familiar. I worried. Did I remember him from a while back at the bar in Hawaii? Had he finally come to let me have it? Who orders a mai tai? Who forgets valid ID when traveling with the president? Nope, he had a different question: “Did you travel with the president to Russia?”
“Yes.”
“Were you given a teddy bear?”
“Yes.”
“We’re going to need that. Turns out, it was bugged.”
Unfortunately, I had no idea where it was—still don’t—and am very curious as to what nonsense the Russians heard me say. Of course, they could have just waited a few years for the Presidential Records Act (PRA) to take effect and comb through our emails. The PRA mandated that all presidential records, including staff emails, be preserved. So we knew that eventually our emails—our private tiffs and petty spats—would become public. The act loomed over most White House staffers like a drunk buddy who kne
w a secret. Now, with the exception of a few period-for-subject-line emails, I tried to keep my more moronic comments verbal and therefore off the record.I Unfortunately, Velz liked to follow not only the letter but also the spirit of the PRA law—and he took to preserving the more colorful quotes as heard in Upper Press, sending them around for posterity via email.
I was too often the one offering the quotable (read: mockable) lines. For instance, in the warped blear of a late afternoon at the height of a stressful stretch of policy rollouts regarding criminal justice reform, I looked quizzically at a link somebody sent to me. I rubbed my eyes and reasoned out loud that “the longer the link the newer the link.” Quickly, I realized this didn’t make an iota of sense. I heard the typing behind me, and quickly a blast email brought the starkness of my stupidity to the fore.
“ ‘Good Lord, this hyperlink is so long! Is it the most recent hyperlink of all time?’—P. Cunnane, with a bit of tech wisdom.”
That prompted a familiar chortle that made its way around the room, from Liz and Bobby to Desiree and Jimmy, who was lighter with the knowledge of an impending, well-deserved promotion—away from scheduling and toward substance in the EEOB. Then, loudest, Velz’s maniacal laugh, which helped cut the tension of a taxing afternoon.
Criminal justice reform meant a great deal to Obama; it was an important policy plank of the president’s second term. He wanted to combat the exploding prison population, especially for nonviolent, often low-level drug offenders who were unduly punished, frequently along racial lines. Sure, he delivered speeches, gave interviews, and wrote op-eds, but there was one way to gin up extra attention; to focus the United States on the issue. Why not do something that’s never been done before?
We needed to send the president to prison.
Early on, a smart, sardonic woman named Lauren held the role of director of message planning. When somebody—usually a policy person with little understanding of vetting, event logistics, or optics—offered an out-there suggestion, she would politely turn them down with what became her catchphrase. “That’s a bridge too far,” she would say. As we prepared to send Obama on the first trip of a sitting president to a federal prison, I couldn’t help thinking back to Lauren, who sat in Upper Press for years—before Howli, Liz, and Courtney eventually took over—and the difference a few years (and second terms) could make.
Still, second terms weren’t free passes, and some of the vetting reports we received from the research department on real people we wanted to engage with the president were a little too real. As I reviewed a few vetting reports, I remember shouting to Liz:
“Not sure about you, but I’m good with the dude who shot a guy, but I don’t think we should have POTUS meeting with a hooker!”
I could hear Velz start typing even before I finished with that thought.
• • •
Throughout his terms, the president was introduced at most of his events by an RP, somebody with a compelling, relevant story to tell. Part of my job was selecting these folks and helping them craft their introductions. Often, we turned to OPC to send us batches of germane letters.
Sometimes they were kids, like the thirteen-year-old girl Ayla, who wrote to POTUS and FLOTUS from Massachusetts about the Women’s World Cup. She was upset with her brother for having claimed, “Boys are so much better at soccer than girls.” “Whoever is reading this should know that I hate the fact that boys sports always get the most attention,” she wrote. So, when the US Women’s World Cup came by to be honored by the president, we asked Ayla to introduce Obama in front of the team in the East Room. She read her spunky letter to the world, going viral in no time, garnering more attention than many of the men’s teams that came by. And, for a news cycle, she helped solve the very problem that spurred her to sit down and write to “whoever is reading this.”
As one of the people on the inside reading the notes, scouting for real people, it was hard not to develop a type. Whereas Howli had a penchant for chubby babies and old men who wore their hats high atop their heads, I had a thing for grandmas and people who had changed their mind about the president. Perhaps that’s why I’ll never forget Brent Brown’s letter.
To my President,
I sincerely hope that this reaches you, as far too often praise is hard to come by. Apologies to people who deserve it perhaps even less so.
I did not vote for you. Either time. I have voted Republican for the entirety of my life.
I proudly wore pins and planted banners displaying my Republican loyalty. I was very vocal in my opposition to you—particularly the ACA.
Before I briefly explain my story, allow me to first say this: I am so very sorry. I understand written content cannot convey emotions very well—but my level of conviction has me in tears as I write this. I was so very wrong. So very, very wrong.
You saved my life. I want that to sink into your ears and mind. My President, you saved my life, and I am eternally grateful.
I have a “preexisting condition,” and so could never purchase health insurance. Only after the ACA came into being could I be covered. Put simply, to not take up too much of your time if you are in fact taking the time to read this: I would not be alive without access to care I received due to your law.
So thank you from a dumb young man who thought he knew it all and who said things about you that he now regrets. Thank you for serving me even when I didn’t vote for you.
Thank you for being my President.
Honored to have lived under your leadership and guidance,
Brent Nathan Brown
As soon as I got to “I did not vote for you,” I knew that OPC had a potential gem. And the note only got better. Like any good story, it had a turn—“I was so very wrong.”—and a gripping twist: “You saved my life.” I got Brent on the phone as soon as I could.
Calling RPs was part of my job. I used to listen as Howli and Lauren before her did the same. “Hi, I’m calling from the White House in Washington, DC,” they’d say. I used to laugh at the last part. “Everybody knows the White House is in DC,” I’d mock. But when I started making the calls, I got it. Overexplaining was a means to delay the initial response of the RP on the other end of the line, giving cushion for the sentence to sink in, for reality to register: the White House is calling.
A favorite party trick among first-time fliers on Air Force One was calling family and friends from the plane. The onboard operator would dial out. Your mom or dad would pick up and hear: “This is Air Force One, please hold for Pat.” There was power in those words, even if I was calling for no reason at all. But my parents already knew where I worked, where I was that day. I imagined that a letter writer receiving an out-of-the-blue call from the White House was more meaningful.
With Brian in mind, I tried to uphold the decorum of it all. “This is Pat Cunnane, and I’m calling from the White House in Washington, DC.” There’s nothing like surprising folks with a phone call from the White House. It’s a remarkable experience, calling people, sometimes as they are really struggling, and letting them know that their president cares. That their optimism in sitting down to write has been rewarded. They have been heard. And, that the president would like to meet them.
I once called a man whose husband had recently been killed in the 2015 San Bernardino, California, terrorist attack. His strength was extraordinary. I had no idea what to say to him. As much as I thought about the impression my words, purely as a vehicle of expression from the White House, made on him, he made a far greater impression on me.
My first interaction with Brent Brown wasn’t so eye-opening. My impression was mixed.
“Now that’s a bridge too far!” I murmured to myself as I read Brent’s first-draft introduction of President Obama for his upcoming speech on the Affordable Care Act. I swiveled my chair 180 degrees to Velz, gave him a you’ll-want-to-capture-this look, and circled another 90 degrees toward one of my bosses. “Liz!” I shouted.
“Yes, Pat!” she shouted back.
> “We can’t have our introducer reference testicles, right?”
I could hear Velz typing.
“That’s correct, Pat.”
I entered Liz’s office, thinking that we might be getting pranked, and closed the door behind me.
“All of our RPs get ARP’d, right?” I asked Liz, referring to the “arms-reach-of-the-president” background check the Secret Service did for those coming within close proximity to POTUS.
“Yes . . .” she said, which made me feel a little bit better.
With the exception of his line thanking the president for his “testicular fortitude,” Brent’s initial introduction was powerful. Too long, but powerful. I went back and forth with him over email. His notes were unusually long and spiritually deep. Now, I sometimes had a tendency to skim things throughout the day; it wasn’t easy keeping up with many hundreds of emails daily. So, at first, Brent’s notes didn’t seem coherent. Suddenly I worried that it was all too good to be true. Had I been blinded by my thing for people who changed their minds about the president? Could his note have been a ploy? Had we fallen for the perfect fake letter? After all, if I were to mock up a note that I thought was sure to get a response from the White House, it would look like Brent’s.
We decided to move forward with Brent as the introducer and a member of the president’s lunch. If anything appeared amiss at lunch, we could pull him as the introducer. I desperately hoped the lunch would go okay, because telling the president’s story required telling the stories of those who he’s helped. America needed to hear Brent.
The Office of Digital Strategy (ODS) would have agreed. In the second term, Jason Goldman, who was part of the founding teams at Twitter and Medium, came aboard as the chief digital officer for the White House. Digging into the analytics, he and his team found that engagement based on personal narrative and experience worked best.